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The second time around is supposed to be different. During my current pregnancy, my mother frequently reminded me that the emotional toll would be higher, though I initially dismissed her warnings as typical maternal drama. I assumed any volatility would stem from the physical strain of carrying another life. I never could have imagined that the true source of my emotional collapse would be a chance encounter at a local community center, exposing the elaborate double life my husband, Malcolm, had been leading for years. At seven months pregnant, my primary ambition was to disappear into the upholstery of my…